“I think，” said Francis Morton， approaching Mrs Henne-Falcon， his eyes focused unwaveringly on her exuberantbreasts， “it will be no use my playing. My nurse will be callingfor me very soon.”
“Oh， but your nurse can wait， Francis，” said Mrs Henne-Falcon， while she clapped her hands together to summon toher side a few children who were already straying up the widestaircase to upper floors. “Your mother will never mind.”
That had been the limit of Francis’s cunning. He had refusedto believe that so well-prepared an excuse could fail. Allthat he could say now， still in the precise tone which otherchildren hated， thinking it a symbol of conceit， was， “I thinkI had better not play.” He stood motionless， retaining， thoughafraid， unmoved features. But the knowledge of his terror， orthe reflection of the terror itself， reached his brother’s brain.
For the moment， Peter Morton could have cried aloud with thefear of bright lights going out， leaving him alone in an islandof dark surrounded by the gentle lappings of strange footsteps.
Then he remembered that the fear was not his own， but hisbrother’s. He said impulsively to Mrs Henne-Falcon， “Please，I don’t think Francis should play. The dark makes him jumpso.” They were the wrong words. Six children began to sing，“Cowardy cowardy custard，” turning torturing faces with thevacancy of wide sunflowers towards Francis Morton.
Without looking at his brother， Francis said， “Of courseI’ll play. I’m not afraid， I only thought...” But he was alreadyforgotten by his human tormentors. The children scrambledround Mrs Henne-Falcon， their shrill voices pecking at herwith questions and suggestions.
“Yes， anywhere in the house. We will turn out all the lights.
Yes， you can hide in the cupboards. You must stay hidden aslong as you can. There will be no home.”
Peter stood apart， ashamed of the clumsy manner in whichhe had tried to help his brother. Now he could feel， creepingin at the corners of his brain， all Francis’s resentment of hischampioning. Several children ran upstairs， and the lights onthe top floor went out. Darkness came down like the wings ofa bat and settled on the landing. Others began to put out thelights at the edge of the hall， till the children were all gatheredin the central radiance of the chandelier， while the batssquatted round on hooded wings and waited for that， too， to beextinguished.
“You and Francis are on the hiding side，” a tall girl said，and then the light was gone， and the carpet wavered under hisfeet with the sibilance of footfalls， like small cold draughts，creeping away into corners.
“Where’s Francis？” he wondered. “If I join him He’ll beless frightened of all these sounds.” “These sounds” were thecasing of silence： the squeak of a loose board， the cautiousclosing of a cupboard door， the whine of a finger drawn alongpolished wood.
